The Qiulong Dragon Soup
by GigglingDonkey
Summary: It has been forty years since they first met, however, they still are the same old John Watson and Sherlock Holmes. A man shows up in an asylum, showing many of the symptoms of the Spanish flu. Delirious, sweating, and vomiting, the man utters one last word before dying, Dragon. It is now up to the two protagonists to solve the case and regain their former glory.


The Qiulong Dragon Soup

The rain whipped against the windows of the bus. It had been pouring down since yesterday, typical English weather. The monotony of wheat fields and grass plains were only broken by the occasional lorry passing by. The few trees in the distance had begun their yearly metamorphosis from green to red. I caught a glimpse of my profile in the window; my moustache had grown thicker lately. Age had caught up with me, I remarked, examining one of many wrinkles in my forehead. A noise disrupted me from my thoughts; it was a snore from my ever-present companion, Sherlock Holmes. He too had grown older, but did not share the chronic pains and signs of aging that I did. Instead, Holmes was in remarkably good shape, never complaining about discomfort in the slightest. I had always wondered how this came to be. Granted, I had acquired injuries as a young man in the military. Sherlock was, despite his various drug problems and side effects of these, a specimen, physically many decades younger than myself. Although it sometimes annoyed me, it was not nearly as annoying as the reason for our current situation.

I would gladly have liked to have cursed Sherlock's name for placing me in this situation, but I had always had a hard time putting a stop to Sherlock's whims and will. Even though I would never reveal it to Sherlock, I had a feeling that deep down I actually enjoyed it, or maybe it was the fear of a mundane life that continued to push me to follow Sherlock for the better part of forty years now. Only this morning... Well, I call it morning, but it was more like noon. Sherlock had burst into the kitchen and dragged me along with him, much to my dismay. Without explanation, he shoved me into a cab which transported us two hours beyond the city limits.

"What does a man have to do to get a moments peace and enjoy a sunday brunch?" I asked while we drove further and further away from the city. Sherlock remained silent, reading a book on pandemics.

"What reason can you possible have for bringing me out this far into this rural nothingness?" I burst out in frustration.

It was not until driving under the gate that I finally got one of my questions answered, Arkham Asylum.

"What are we doing here? It's not someone with a mental disorder, is it?" I asked

"Just as right, dragging me out in the early morning to see another mental ca…"

"It was just the closest hospital to where he was." Sherlock interrupted, finally breaking his silence.

"Closest hospital to where who was? I asked.

"The man we are about to see". Sherlock replied.

"Well then, what's wrong with him?" I asked.

"He's dead." Sherlock stated without showing any signs of sympathy.

As the cab finally came to a stop on the hospital parking lot, I stepped out of the car, with a groan. My leg had never really fully recovered after the war in Afghanistan, but over the years it had acquired a tendency to stiffen up during longer periods of inactivity. Leaning heavily on my cane, we made our way towards the entrance.

We were met by a man only a few years our junior by the name of Dr. Leighton Ferguson. He wore an ill-fitting three-piece suit. The waistcoat was not doing much to keep his posture straight; on the contrary, he had a tad of a slouch. Looking up at us, he sighed, showing signs of a very tired man who had not slept much of late. Dr. Ferguson greeted us, and immediately shared his relief that the we had shown up.

"Gentlemen, I am delighted to see you! We are certainly not equipped for these matters." he explained.

He went on, explaining how the man arrived at the asylum in the early hours, this morning, and that he was in dire need of medical expertise.

"It was certainly not you that killed him." Sherlock interrupted. "So you do not need to explain yourself; instead let's get to the point of the matter; what was the cause of death?

"Well I don't know exactly." Dr. Ferguson said apologetically. "As he came in he was still alive, with symptoms of excessive sweating, nausea, and vomiting and he passed away shortly thereafter."

I asked if the victim had mentioned anything about what he had seen before he was rushed of to the asylum. The only thing Dr. Ferguson could think of was that the man uttered the word _Dragon_ before he passed away, but as the young man was clearly delirious he didn't think twice about it.

Sherlock, I and Dr. Ferguson were now facing a big metal door labeled _mortuary_.

"I have to warn you gentlemen." The doctor said in a whispering voice. "I can see the resemblance in the victim's symptoms, and those of the patients I treated during the Spanish flu. I just wanted to warn you before you enter." A brief respite before opening the door gave Dr. Ferguson a moment to prepare for what laid beyond it. Grasping the handle, turning it, and gently opening it revealed a human-sized bag placed on a grey marble table. Dr. Ferguson opened the body bag to reveal the dead body of a man.

"This is Mr Mackenzie according to the diary we found on him." Dr. Ferguson said. The man had been muscular and tall; his red hair was trimmed short whilst sporting a very thick stubble. It was clearly noticeable that the man had performed much physical labour, surely partaking in the Great War too. His pale body blended in with the grey walls of the mortuary and the marble table on which his body lay. He did not have any signs of physical strains and did not appear to have died a violent death. His facial expression was hard to decipher as he did not appear to have been shocked at the moment of death, nor did he have the look of a man who had died peacefully. It was something else, which made the situation even more haunting. The uncomfortable silence of Dr. Ferguson made me shiver for a slight moment until Sherlock opened his mouth.

"How was Mr Mackenzie's social status?" Sherlock asked nobody in particular.

"He is an attractive young man. Maybe, a scorned lover seeking retribution? I assume you all know the saying about the prefered weapon for women and assassins?"

"So you don't think it is the Spanish flu?" Dr. Ferguson asked.

"Well, I think our Dr. Watson can answer that for us."

"Well there are no signs of bleeding around his mouth, or nose, and the victim's skin was of ordinary colour." I explained. "From my studies of the influenza, the victims show a brown, almost purple tone of skin color." Sherlock interrupted as he so often did.

"May I bother Dr. Ferguson for Mr Mackenzie's personal belongings, Sherlock asked. Ferguson left the room, only to return a moment later with a manilla package. From it he withdrew a silver locket and the battered brown diary.

"Is this it, no identification?" Sherlock asked.

"No, he didn't have any on him when arriving here." Ferguson responded. While I did my best to figure out a cause of death, Sherlock opened up the locket. Its content was ruined, most likely due to the rain, and whatever the photograph inside was supposed to show was beyond recognition. He pocketed the locket, and instead, opened up the diary. On the inside cover stood, _The property of Colin MacKenzie_. This, aswell, suffered from water damages, but there were at least a couple of pages which were intact enough to read.

 _1920-07-05_

 _So, I decided to give this diary a shot. Being a gift from my dearest friend back home, I promised her that I was going to keep a journal while being away. I don't really know what to write in a diary. I've arrived in Brightlingsea. It's a small fishing village on the east coast, and it didn't take long to find work here, down at the docks. I am a decky, the job is tough, a lot of hard work and long hours but the money is good._

 _1920-07-20_

 _I can't stop thinking about the boss' daughter, a fetching little thing. I have to ask her out soon!_

 _1920-07-24_

 _It was a good day today, I finally had the chance to speak to the boss' daughter, her name is Shirley Mayfield. A very pretty lass and such a beautiful smile. She helps out with the paperwork around the place, we hit it off straight away and I decided to ask her out._

 _1920-07-25_

 _Shirley and I had a wonderful time and we decided to go out again, just have to keep it a secret from the rest that's all._

"Well I do not know if there is anything else to see here. The cause of death is clearly poison." Sherlock exclaimed. Dr. Ferguson took a deep breath of relief knowing that it was not the Spanish flu that caused the man's death. Sherlock declared that this had been obvious all along, and that it was time to move on to the next location.

With a hasty farewell, we left Dr. Ferguson, and made our way back outside. The cab, however, was nowhere to be found.

"You can't trust anybody these days." Sherlock declared. "A hansom cab would have waited all night if he just got the coins he wanted. And you, my dear Watson, cannot even walk a block in the city without complaining about your ailments. God only knows how long it will take to reach Brightlingsea by foot!"

"Well that's not going to happen." I answered. "Let us go back inside and call another cab. It will probably take hours to get here, but I will not wander the countryside with you, looking for clues!" Suddenly, a deep voice appeared behind us.

"I couldn't help overhearing, I'm guessing that you are here because of that boy who came in this morning." The man said. "I was the driver of the ambulance. They just released me from quarantine. That jackass, Ferguson, thought it was the flu. Hell, I could have told him differently, and I did, all the people I saw dying from it during the war, but it's not like he would listen to a mere driver. Listen, I would gladly take you there, but I'm _not to be trusted with the keys, unless it's an emergency._ There is a bus stop just a little way down that road, it will take you to the place you want."

After limping along the country road for what seemed like an eternity, we reached the bus stop. Another eternity went by and the bus finally arrived, its brakes squealing fiercely as it came to a stop. The mechanics were clearly on par with the vehicle's aesthetics. Most of the windows were cracked, resulting in a loud whining from the wind, that, combined with the roaring sound the engine conjured, made it next to impossible to hold a conversation. Upon entering the bus, one could not fail to notice the leaking from the roof of the bus, ranging from drips to a constant stream of water. I took out a couple of bob from my coat pocket, and paid for the two of us. We then proceeded to make our way to the back of the bus, in an attempt to find a seat which was somewhat dry, but failed to do so. Sherlock took the seat next to me. Half an hour in and my leg had begun to go stiff again.

The ride seemed to be never-ending. A glance at Sherlock informed me that he was still asleep. With a deep sigh, I returned to look out the window. Eventually I saw our destination, a small town by the sea, Brightlingsea, connected to an even smaller forest area. By now, my leg was completely numb. A swift kick to Sherlock's shin gave me some brief satisfaction. Sherlock looked up at me with a grimace.

"What did you do that for?" he moaned.

"We are here."

My initial thought when stepping off the bus and looking around the town square was one of former glory. Most of the shop windows had been bordered up. Across the street from the bus stop stood a three story hotel, only recognizable as a hotel because of the decrepit sign above the entrance. A tiny police station was visible down the road, to the left of the hotel's entrance. The few people who braved the weather, for whatever reason, seemed to be made up entirely of elderly women. As I heard the doors of the bus shutting behind us, I spun around quickly and started to knock on its glass panel until the driver opened once again.

"What is the departure time for the next bus out of here?" I asked.

"You chaps are in luck! There is one leaving next morning." He shouted back over the loud noise of the engine. The bus drove away leaving Sherlock and me in the small town of Brightlingsea.

"Well let's go on with our mission then." Sherlock proclaimed. "The diary mentioned his work down at the docks, so that will be our first destination."

Heading towards the harbour, in the opposite direction from the police station, we soon found ourselves in the right place. Even though the docks were about as shabby as the town square had been, it was at least buzzing with activity. A couple of fishing boat were docked; however, most of the workers were attending a small cargo ship in the process of being unloaded. The voices coming from that direction made it clear that they were not of British descent, but rather East Asian. At the other end of the area there was a building, which we assumed had to be the dock offices and we began walking toward it. Reaching the building, I knocked on the door, but there was no answer. I knocked louder, but there was still no answer. Somewhat dismayed I felt the door handle to see if it was unlocked.

"What are you doing here!" A voice shouted out behind me. I was startled because in that instant I knew that it seemed like we were breaking in. I swung around to see the man himself, surrounded by a gang of dockworkers who were shouting at us.

"Step away from the door, or I'm calling the police."

Sherlock, who knew that there was not much of a police force to talk about in the city of Brightlingsea, swung around and confidently started to walk towards the foreman. As soon as the foreman recognized that he was dealing with a couple of elderly men, and not burglars, he excused his language and asked about our reasons for coming there.

"We are here because we have some questions about an employee of yours, a Mr Mackenzie." Sherlock explained.

The foreman told us that he had not come to work that day, which was unusual for him.

He walked past us, and into the offices. Following him and the others into a room, clearly not designed to accommodate seven men. The foreman sat himself behind a desk, the name tag placed on it read Reginald Mayfield.

"He is a good, solid british worker unlike like all of these chinamen. We sent all of our able bodied men to fight the war, and all we got back were chinamen." he stated while making a gesture in the direction of the men at work. This kind of racism was not new to neither Sherlock, nor me, but what struck Sherlock as weird was that the rest of the the foreman's crew, all of East Asian origin, could hear the whole conversation. I asked the foreman if anyone knew Mr. Mackenzie, or maybe if he had a family nearby.

"...Is he dead?"

"Yes." I replied.

A sound, as if something heavy had fallen to the floor, came from the other room, followed by another sound of a door slamming shut.

"What could that have been?" Sherlock asked the the foreman.

"It probably was just my daughter, she helps out with the paperworks now and then. She has been in a mood all week, and she usually gets annoyed when she has to help out around here".

"Is there any chance the she might have known Mr. Mackenzie?" Sherlock asked, but the foreman answered that he knew nothing about it.

"That cargo ship outside, is that a common occurrence? Sherlock continued, changing subject.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, is it not strange for a cargo ship dock in such a small village?" he said while pointing at it through the window.

"Well, no, not really. We need supplies here too." as he said it, his eyes flicked towards the Chinese fellow standing next to them.

"Anyway, I must ask you to leave, I have a lot of work to do. I'm sure you understand."

With the quick reprieve from the rain now over, we made our way towards our next destination, Mackenzie's residence. After just a few steps, a girl with pitch black hair on a bicycle almost collided with us, as she rounded the corner behind the foreman's office. Rather than stopping and apologizing, she continued past us without a word.

"Did you notice the similarities between her and the foreman?" Sherlock remarked. "It is no doubt his daughter and she was crying. She must have overheard us talking about Mr. Mackenzie."

"It does not surprise me, the diary did mention a relationship between the two." I knew I did not have to say it, but I did not like the feeling of being excluded from Sherlock's deductive prowess.

"Right you are, dear fellow." Sherlock answered.

We continued walking, as dusk began to settle and upon the sight of the victim's home and of the locked door that separated us from whatever what was inside, we began pondering. Sherlock brandished two pins and proceeded to stick them into the lock. I realized, that if anyone saw us it would be of the utmost difficulty to explain our present deeds. Looking around, there was indeed someone watching. An elderly woman staring while walking by, on the opposite side of the street. I raised my hand and waved, but she did not reciprocate, I lowered it again, lamely, looking down on my feet.

"What's taking so long Sherlock? I thought you could open any lock in your sleep, or have you lost your touch?" I said tauntingly.

Feeling antsy, I kicked over a nearby stone and revealed a spare key. I picked it up, shoved Sherlock aside, opened the door, and stepped inside. It was a perfectly ordinary looking apartment with two rooms, and a bathroom. It was neatly organized with a clean kitchen.

"Do you think anything here is related to the murder?" I asked Sherlock, as I could not spot anything suspicious myself.

"Well by the look of the place our victim was a tidy person with strict routines, making it hard for us to find any evidence of a secret relationship. Here is nothing relating to our story." I signaled for Sherlock to be quiet, exposing the sound of sirens. Here I stood in a stranger's house, trying to determine whether the sirens are wailing on account of us or not. With a slight panic I noticed that they did indeed grow louder. Glancing over at Sherlock, who continued to investigate the room, as if he did not care about the alarming sound, the sirens grew louder and more shrill. Before long they were right outside the house. The sound of heavy braking made me move as fast as I could to the peephole to see if I could figure out what was happening. As I put my eye to the peephole in the door, it was kicked in, knocking me out.

Voices in the distance where calling my name, maybe it was Mary calling for me to join her. The voice became clearer, but deeper at the same time. It was a man's voice.

"He's coming around, he's waking up." The voice said.

"What happened?" I cried out. A man in a police uniform with a grin on his face answered.

"You got knocked out, doctor."

"Where am I?"

"At the police station." said a voice that could only belong to Sherlock Holmes. Looking out the window, I noticed how the darkness had consumed the sky, however, it was still producing heavy rain. Sherlock and the officer resumed their conversation. Sitting up slowly, I asked what was going on.

"Just after your little accident with the door, I explained our purpose to the police officer who then took us back here." Sherlock explained. "Can I bother you for a phone so we can get a transport back to London", he asked the officer.

"I think it is best for your friend to get some rest", he answered. "I can drive you to a hotel nearby so you can get a fresh start in the morning."

There was not a sign of life upon entering the hotel establishment. Not until ringing the bell at the reception, did someone notice us. An elderly woman with grey hair and a strong chin bone reminding me of the foreman, showed up behind the counter.

"Can I help you gentlemen?" she asked us.

"Yes, we would like a room for the night, two beds, no breakfast". I did not mind a solid breakfast but I had a feeling that the food served in this hotel would be better of not being served. As she guided us to the room, Sherlock asked the receptionist about the hotel's clientele. The owner revealed that business is slow these days, the only other guests, except from us two, where Chinese workers from the port. She escorted us to the room, and bid us goodnight. Still wet and cold, I went in to investigate the bathroom facilities and was delighted to see a shower.

Half an hour later, with my face still red from the steam and wearing just a bathrobe, I hung up my wet clothes on the dresser to dry. I threw myself in bed and looked over at Sherlock. He was pacing in circles. He suddenly stopped. Looking at the door, the bolt lock was broken. Hanging there feebly, it wouldn't hinder anything. Sherlock looked over at me and then at my coat hanging beside the door.

"Do you have any coins?" he asked without looking at me, but instantly searching through my coat pockets after a coin.

He pulled out a shilling from my leather purse and began screwing the lock back in place, using the coin. I went and opened the window, with the intention to let the remaining heat from the shower air out. Looking out, the view, or lack thereof, was hindered by the hotel sign. I then sat down on the edge of the bed and glanced over at Sherlock, to try and figure out what he was doing. Before long I gave up, instead picking up the victim's diary, flipped to the next section which was not ruined, laid back and began reading.

 _1920-08-14_

 _I found something strange the other day. I was in her apartment relaxing while she was out buying some groceries so we would make dinner. Shirley had some work-papers lying around and I decided to tidy up a bit. While organizing the papers, I realized something unusual with some of the paperwork, it didn't add up with the regular shipments. I know all the stuff that has been unloaded from the docks while I have been working there, but these papers just don't make sense. I am going down to the docks tomorrow night to see what it is, and take a look for myself._

 _1920-08-15_

 _It was just as I thought, I was hoping it wasn't true but I opened one of the crates and found something bad. I don't know what to do, I really love her but I don't know if she is a part of the whole thing or just being used by her father since she is so good with the paperwork. I will have to wait and see. Will be hard to not give myself away, best thing to do is to be neutral and keep her at a distance until I know all the details and that it's safe for both of us. God I hope she is innocent._

 _1920-08-21_

 _People are asking me what's wrong all the time. It's really hard to act normal but all I can think about is her safety and not to get involved, I just want a regular job. I have noticed she is getting more and more upset because I can't be with her as much as we both would like, if only she knew it was for her own sake. She is the most precious thing I have in this world and I would never risk her life, as she is the love of my life._

Eventually the lights went out in the room. A moment, or several hours later, I awoke suddenly at the sound of conversation being whispered outside the door. Thinking nothing of it, I turned over, intending to resume my sleep. However, the door handle slowly started turning, and I sat up straight. As silent as he could I tried to signal to Sherlock. The handle was all the way down now, the door was pushed in, but hindered due to the newly repaired bolt lock. I turned on the light, only to find Sherlock's bed empty; he was hastily putting on his clothes.

I waved and tried to whisper to Sherlock.

"What is going on, who is it?" But Sherlock interrupted me, and in calm voice he asked.

"How many do you think they are? Do you have your revolver on you?"

"No, I did not have time to put on my revolver this morning because I was rushed out of his house by a certain somebody!" I answered in an irritated voice. The people outside became quiet when they saw that the light had been turned on and now they began ramming the door in an attempt to force it open.

"We are unarmed, and no match for these hooligans. Our only option is to flee out the window." said Sherlock.

"The window? Need I remind you that we are on the second floor and in our seventies?" I hissed.

"Some of us more than others." Sherlock said, looking at my cane.

He opened the window, jumped through it onto the scaffolding holding up the sign, and started to make his way to the neighboring roof. I, only donning the bathrobe I put on after the shower, grabbed the diary on the bedside table and something from of the drawer. Perching on the window stead, preparing to jump down the same way Sherlock did, my leg started to act up again. Instead of the graceful landing I imagined, I lost my footing on the wet steel bar holding up the sign, and fell to the ground. Above me I could hear how the pursuers had managed to pry open the door and were now shouting in Mandarin. Laying on my back, somewhat obscured by the darkness, the rain, and the steel bar I fell from, I saw how someone stuck their head out of the window, looking in the direction Sherlock had gone. The man then shouted something to the people inside. Quickly, I gathered my strength and started crawling into the alleyway between the buildings. After I rounded the second corner, now on the opposite side of the building, from the entrance, I leaned against the wall and listened. All I could hear was the sound of constant rain smattering. Looking down at my hands I first now noticed what I, in my desperation, got with me from the drawer, a towel. I folded it and tied it tight around my kneecap in a desperate attempt to increase stability. It took everything I had to stand up. Nevertheless, even though I had some bumps and bruises from my fall, to my amazement, nothing was broken. I tucked the diary into my robe and started to move. Limping fiercely I kept to the smaller streets as I was less likely to be spotted there. I feared that if I stopped for a rest, I wouldn't be able to start moving again. Fighting the rain and darkness, I finally made it to Mackenzie's apartment again. I dodged the crime scene tape and pushed what remained of the door in, only to fall straight through it. A high pitched squeal made me look up. On the bed was the woman who nearly hit us with her bike earlier. Teary-eyed and clutching onto a shirt, she looked over at me. We assumed that she was the foreman's daughter.

"Who are you?" I asked, for confirmation.

"Who are _you_?" she responded.

"I need some help, can you help me to sit up and tighten this towel around my leg?" I asked her. She got up from the bed, took out a piece of bandage from a drawer and helped me up on a chair.

"My name is Shirley. I was the fiancé of the man who lived here, Colin Mackenzie, but now he is gone." She broke down in tears, throwing herself onto the bed. I had a particular problem coping with young women, especially if they were crying, and the agony in my knee after the fall made me quite irritated of the whole situation. I started to think of Sherlock and how he pushed me out of my home this morning, if Sherlock had been present in this situation he would have ignored the girl's crying and continued to question her. After all, she was a suspect.

"It has been a long day, miss; please tell me, when was the last time you saw Mr. Mackenzie?"

"It was yesterday afternoon, I came by here to give him some dinner. He had been complaining about the food for a while, but I just don't have the money to buy proper groceries. Therefore, yesterday I ransacked the woods for some mushrooms and greens to make a soup, just like the Chinese workers do. That night Collin had been angry over something, I could tell, but he said he felt ill and had to leave." Shirley explained to me how she thought that he was cheating on her, and that the illness was just a cover. Apparently our conversation had carried on well into the early morning; because I noticed that the light had started to shift.

"Dear child, would you be so kind as to drive me to the police station? If it is not too much to ask." I asked kindly, and off we went. We arrived at the police station and Shirley had to help me up the stairs where we were greeted by a group of people. There was the foreman who was worried about his daughter as she had been missing all night; there was Sherlock who was worried about what had happened to me.

"While you were away, my dear Watson, I managed to solve the case, and apprehend the murderer. The man in front of you is Reginald Mayfield, the foreman down at the port but also the head of the largest illegal opium dealings this side of the channel." Sherlock continued. "After I got rid of my pursuers in the night I went down to the docks again to find out more about the mysterious cargo ship. Inside the cargo ship I found a lorry which contained a crate with a small dragon on it, remembering the last word of the victim I pried the crate open to find the goods in question. The victim must have found out about it, and thus he needed to be silenced. The Chinese have always had an affinity for using poisons in the past such as red crane's-crown, three laugh death powder, and gu. The foreman, Reginald Mayfield, denying all of Sherlock's accusations, tried to object, but not before I did."

I had to interrupt Sherlock, and I started to tell him that he was correct up to the point of the victim finding out about the illegal goods. Reginald, however, never found out that Colin knew about the shipment. Colin was in quite the dilemma. On the one hand was his sense of justice, his civil duty to expose his boss illegal ways. On the other was the love of his life, Shirley. The decision had taken its toll on Colin, as he resolved himself to put some distance between himself and the Mayfields, until he had made a decision.

"From the diary entry we can read that he was together with Shirley here. When Mr. Mackenzie distanced himself from the foreman, he inadvertently had to do so to his daughter as well. She, in turn, grew more and more suspicious and feared the worst, that he was either unfaithful, or that he was leaving her." I explained, trying not to appear smug.

"I made a qualified guess, that she had gone and picked fly amanitas in the forest." The look on Shirley's was one of confusion.

"The _Fairy stool_ , the red ones with white spots." Comprehension dawned on her.

"The effects of these fit the victim's symptoms better than any poisons you just mentioned. She then mixed them into her cooking, in order to make him sick and dependent on her; but, not knowing how potent the mushrooms were, she used too much, resulting in fiancé's death."

"Fiancé?" The foreman shouted.

"But I couldn't just let him leave me! If I could only show him how much he needed me he wouldn't.."

"He wasn't." I interrupted.

Shirley seemed confused. I pulled out the diary from the robe. Turning to the page of the last entry, 21th of August, and began reading out loud,

" _People are asking me what's wrong all the time. It's really hard to act normal but all I can think about is her safety and not to get involved, I just want a regular job. I have noticed she is getting more and more upset because I can't be with her as much as we both would like, if only she knew it was for her own sake. She is the most precious thing I have in this world and I would never risk her life, as she is the love of my life."_

Shirley fell to her knees, tears streaming from her cheeks. Her father had just about had enough of this apparent nonsense.

"That's enough of you two!" he cried out. "One of you accuses me of murder and the other accuses my daughter of the same. What nerve you must have coming here and spreading rumors! Tell them Shirley, tell them that they are a bunch of incompetent fools." The girl looked up at her father, and then at Sherlock, and lastly at me and my injured leg.

"It is true father, I only wanted him to love me as much as I loved him. I did not mean to kill him." she said, but she could not hold her gaze. Her head sunk and she became silent. Handing the diary to the police officer, I made my way to Sherlock. I reached into his pocket and something glinting.

"Even at death's door he was thinking of you." I said as I handed Shirley the locket. This time it was Sherlock who gave the sign of comprehension. The picture inside the locket was of her.

As we left the station, the sun had begun to peek over the horizon, and it had stopped raining for the first time in three days. I wondered what Sherlock thought about not being the star deductor of the case, but I did not dare to ask for fear of hurting his pride.

"Even a broken clock is right twice a day" he murmured.

"It was quite elementary, my dear Sherlock " I said with a grin on my face. We had both grown old, but our friendship remained constant.


End file.
